Peace on Earth and Goodwill to Man and All That
by Miss Becky
Summary: Even on Christmas Eve, nothing is the way it seems. Story written by request. Prompt given was Sands, El, and a Santa hat.


Peace on Earth and Goodwill to Man and All That Kind of Bullshit

Disclaimer: I do not own Sands or El or even a Santa hat

Summary: Christmas Eve night. A dark alleway. Sands. El. A Santa hat.

* * *

Sands had never been into Christmas. He had never been too keen on that whole "giving" thing – especially since Ajedrez had given him the gift of blindness. That was one gift that _never_ stopped giving – and all in all, he was content to just let the holiday slide right past. He didn't even care that tonight was Christmas Eve. It was just another day for him.

Business as usual, in other words.

His contact obviously cared, though. "I can't believe you're making me come all the way out here," the guy complained. "And what's up with the sunglasses? It's almost midnight."

Sands gave him a cool smile. "I like to be mysterious."

"Whatever," the contact said. Sands didn't even know his name. "So what do you think of my hat? Pretty cool, huh? My kids want me to wear it tomorrow morning when we open presents."

Sands' smile thinned out a little. As if having a family was going to save this guy. He was already doomed, and he didn't even know it. "It's peachy. So where's my information?"

"Don't worry," the contact said. "I've got what you want." He hesitated. "You aren't the only one wanting this information, you know."

"But I'm the only one willing to pay what it's worth," Sands said. He held out the plastic lunchbox. The kids at the store had told him it had dinosaurs on it, but it could be a kiddie version of El Chupacabra fucking Snow White, for all he cared.

The contact laughed a little. "Yeah," he said. He took a deep breath. "The cartel's holed up just outside Culiácan. Sanchez has got a mansion on the north side of town."

"Right back where they started," Sands mused. He tossed the lunchbox at his contact while he pondered this news. This _good_ news. He had them on the run now. They were finally paying attention. They were retreating, circling the wagons, going back to the familiar home turf.

"Gracias," the contact said. "Feliz Navidad."

"Go fuck yourself," Sands said. He drew his gun and shot the guy.

And then he spun around and shot the guy crouched on the roof, the one he had heard when his contact talked about his kids.

The night came alive with gunfire.

Sands ran behind the garbage dumpster, the one he had scoped out well ahead of time. He took cover, and then he began firing.

Everything fell away in the glory of the gunfight. It happened every time. He didn't need his eyes right now. His guns were his eyes. They aimed themselves with deadly precision. They worked so closely with his hands that he never had to worry whether his shots found their marks. One by one the bad guys gave themselves away, and one by one he shot them dead, until there was only himself remaining, only himself left standing.

"What…?" The contact was dying but still alive.

Sands walked out from behind the dumpster and shot him again. "Ho ho ho, asshole."

The alleyway rang with silent echoes. He listened carefully, always wary of the lone idiot who tried to be a hero by only pretending to be dead. But this time there were no heroes.

Only idiots.

He eased forward until his foot touched the body of his contact. He holstered one gun, but kept the other out – just in case. He dropped to one knee and carefully patted the body until his searching fingers touched something soft, something adorned with a fluffy ball.

He put the Santa hat on his head. "Merry fucking Christmas," he said.

"There is blood on that hat," a man said from behind him.

Sands whirled around, rising to his feet, his gun leading the way. At the last possible second he twitched his hand to the right, and the bullet plowed harmlessly into the alley wall.

"That was close," El Mariachi said.

"Can you give me a reason why it shouldn't have been closer?" Sands drawled.

El said nothing.

"I suppose you were the other buyer," Sands said. He slid his foot forward, waiting for the tap that meant he had found the lunchbox.

"It's to the left," El said.

"Fuck you," Sands shot back. But when he moved his foot to the left, sure enough, there was the lunchbox. It was still closed, thankfully. Not everyone appreciated being paid with blood-spattered bills.

"So where is the cartel now?" El asked.

"You think I'm going to tell you?" Sands said. "Find your own contacts. Quit following me around. This is getting old."

"That's not what you said last time," El said. With every question, he sounded a little closer. No one could move as silently as El Mariachi. No one.

"Last time I was drunk," Sands said. He pocketed the money and closed the lunchbox back up.

"You only wanted your contact to think that," El said. "I know the truth."

"What do you want, El?" Sands asked. It was late, and he wanted to head back to his motel room. He could get a few hours of sleep before heading out early tomorrow. On Christmas Day, traffic would be light. He could make good time and be in Culiácan by noon.

"You look stupid in that hat," El said.

"Then take it off me," Sands invited. He held up his gun. "If you can."

He could practically _hear_ El's silent grin of appreciation. Then suddenly El seized him, startling him so badly he almost fired out of sheer, protective instinct. The gun was grabbed and yanked from his hand. And then he was being forced backward, El's fingers digging into his upper arms hard enough to leave bruises, El's mouth covering his own.

Sands bucked his hips upward, grinding against El's crotch. They were both hard as rocks.

"We gotta stop meeting like this," he panted. "People are going to start spreading rumors."

"Let them," El growled. He bit at Sands' ear, eliciting a hiss of pain from Sands.

"Yeah, but I got to get up early and go to work tomorrow," Sands said. He gripped El's shoulders fiercely, wanting to leave bruises of his own.

"Tomorrow is Christmas," El said. "No one works on Christmas." His hands moved downward, palms dragging hard, pressing hard, grabbing hard.

Sands pushed himself into that grasping touch. "Maybe I could be persuaded to take a day off."

Abruptly El let go of him. Even with the wall at his back, he felt like staggering. "What is it?"

"Do you hear the bells?" El said. He was still standing close, but they were not touching anymore. "It is Christmas morning."

He could hear them, all right. Bells ringing in the village square. Bells ringing from the church. Bells ringing out the message that Christmas had arrived.

"Peace on earth and goodwill to man," Sands said. "And all that kind of bullshit."

"It is not bullshit," El said. "It is Christmas Day. Do we call a truce? Just for one day?"

It was always something with El. Last time it had been November, and the Day of the Dead. Always some reason to postpone the inevitable. "Sooner or later you're going to run out of holidays, El," he said. "No more reasons to call a truce. And then the next time I see you, the next time you try to steal my contacts and my information, I _will_ kill you."

"You always say that," El said. He did not sound at all concerned.

Sands reached up and adjusted the Santa hat he was wearing so it sat at a more rakish angle on his head. "Well," he said. "This time I mean it."

"Of course," El said.

Sands grinned. "So," he said. "Your place or mine?"

El moved forward, pinning him against the wall again. "What is wrong with this place?" he asked.

Sands just laughed.

In the village the bells stopped ringing.

* * *

END 


End file.
